


smile and you've just made a million

by thisishardcore



Category: American Horror Story: 1984, Historical Criminals RPF
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, Home Invasion, Kidnapping, M/M, Sex Trafficking, descriptions of violence, zach is around... 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: He wakes up to a worse heat, something sharp threatening to dig into him, something elsedigginginto him with an unbelievable sort of pain, the kind that turns all his muscles to steel, his teeth to dust. The kind of pain his body will remember long after it leaves him.
Relationships: Richard Ramirez/Zach Villa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	smile and you've just made a million

**Author's Note:**

> >:3c

The first time it comes completely unexpected. He left the window open, the California heat bearing down on his room, inescapable and exhausting. The window is almost a Hail Mary, a last attempt at getting comfortable enough to fall asleep. He remembers thinking, half-awake and dizzy, that he should've closed it. It didn't change the heat much anyway. And there were those cases on the news. Families, women, and boys, attacked, assaulted, left in pools of their own blood soaked into bedsheets. He's asleep before the reality of the threat takes hold.

He wakes up to a worse heat, something sharp threatening to dig into him, something else _digging_ into him with an unbelievable sort of pain, the kind that turns all his muscles to steel, his teeth to dust. The kind of pain his body will remember long after it leaves him. 

He hears a voice in his ear, thin and threatening, telling him to be quiet, stay still, holding him in place easily, saying he'll split him apart and leave his body in pieces for his family to find. Zach feels like his bones are removable parts of him snapping in and out of place, and it hurts, but it doesn't feel _wrong_. His hands are so big around Zach's waist, and he's removing every internal part of him. He can't see anything, can hardly suck down any air with the way he's being pushed into his bed, can hardly think.

He feels sweat, and steel, and skin against the ugliest parts of him. And then he feels nothing. The stranger leaves just as silently as he came in, and Zach is left torn in two, small and terrible, cracked at his very essence. 

\--

Zach stays home from school the next day. He isn't dead but he just might be. His mom says he looks pale, has this look of pity on her face like his pathetic nature is painted on his forehead. She says something looks so different about him. She lays her hand on his forehead, the whole of him wrapped up under his covers and somehow still nervous she’ll see the marks left. He's been poking at the bruises for hours, unable to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. 

She says he just needs to rest. She’ll make him some food, some tea, and he’ll be right by the next morning.

When he's alone again, the room a memorial site for something Zach wasn't even sure he had the night before, he tries to conjure feelings of loss and haunting, tries to feel how he imagine he _should_. And maybe it's just that he can hardly remember anything besides the _sharpness_ of everything, maybe it's that he was a blank stale of a body, someone who never thought very hard about those things, never imagined himself as someone _touched_. Maybe he was the perfect victim. Maybe that stranger knew that, the way predators know their prey. 

Zach has fourteen insignificant years under his belt. Fourteen years of quiet school days, of hiding away in his room, of avoiding his dad and feeling a nagging sort of pity for his mom. He wonders if the stranger knew anything about him, if he climbed into his window for a reason, some long-standing dream to hurt him. 

He pokes at his bruises and feels nothing but utterly fond. 

\--

Zach slogs through the week without telling a single person who visited that night. Zach slogs through the week checking his bruises every morning, staring at himself in the mirror, trying to imagine himself as small and helpless as the stranger must've seen him. He tries to pose in his reflection, he tries to step outside of himself, but all he can think of is skin sticking to his, breath sneaking inside his ear, the stain of sweat and threat of blood. His head turns to clouds, and his body isn't _his_ at all. 

He leaves his window open. The stories on the news have been getting worse. More women turning up slashed open or stomped concave. Zach keeps having dreams of being hurt like that but not dying, standing upright with his head caved in, cracked and bleeding. He keeps having dreams of knives and hands against his throat. 

He leaves his window open. He hardly sleeps. There's something different about tonight, Zach can feel it. 

He doesn't hear anything, but he feels a hand wrap around his mouth, a body settle behind his, another hand at his waist. Zach was starting to think he'd never come back, was starting to think he did something the first time to scare him off, maybe didn't cry or struggle enough, maybe wasn't his type. But this man and his hands, his sweat, are back, and his voice is in his ear again, and Zach absorbs every rise and fall, indulges in every point of contact between them.

The stinging and the pain, the roughness the stranger treats him with, it's all more reason to feel completely taken, completely consumed. Zach lets it travel through him. In the dark and the heat, less oppressive than before, Zach finds a space to settle between the ripping pain and the warmth of skin-to-skin contact. 

He says to stay still, but this time, emboldened by his return, Zach turns on his back, looks up at the man who left pieces of himself inside Zach. The stranger looks almost shocked, skin warm in the low light of Zach's room, eyes almost black, hair sticking to his forehead. Zach smiles. 

The stranger wraps his hands around Zach's throat, pushes him into the mattress, and Zach clings to him. This is the way he should die, he thinks as he sinks further into the world he's made between him and this man. This is his fate. He will be found bruised and ruined. The autopsy will talk of all his traumas and won't mention Zach’s very cells reaching out to him long before the two of them ever met. That's the answer, it must be, him and Zach were always meant to be tied together in this way. That's the reason he climbed into his room the first time. 

He's looking Zach right in his eyes, frantic and desperate. They're dark, evil. They hold something unspeakable. It's the last thing Zach sees before he passes out. 

\--

Zach wakes up despite his entire body saying he's dead, gone. He thinks for a moment that this is the afterlife, that he's passed on to some not-quite-heaven. But it's dark, and his shoulders hurt. He feels hurt. He feels bruised. 

He tries to move only to find his legs are tied together, and his shoulders hurt because his hands are tied behind his back. There's something over his head so he can’t see, and all he can feel is the distinctive rumble of a car under him. He doesn't feel a seat though, doesn't feel a crevice of any kind, but instead a flat floor. A van, he thinks. One of those big stalker vans.

He is gone, in a way, he realizes. He's no longer contained within the four walls of his bedroom, no longer waiting but taken. He wonders, somewhat passively, if he'll ever see the pitied expression of his mom ever again, or if it'll exist only as a ghost on the backs of his eyelids. 

The car he's in stops. There's some ambient noise, a door opening and shutting, a handful of footsteps. A door closer to Zach slides open, and there’s hands all over him. He's thrown over someone's shoulder, he's carried off somewhere. Up some stairs, past another door. He's dropped onto a bed and there's no other way to settle other than on his side, curled up against himself. Pathetic, helpless, regressed into a hardly human form.

He feels sore down to his bones. Every time he movies, or breathes, or blinks under the dark of whatever's covering his head, he feels a gnawing pain wash through him. His shoulders bare the worst of it, leering at him for relief, as if it's his fault. 

He lays like that for what feels like an infinite stretch of time while his body curls into an object of aching, as his head fills with all the possible ends-points. Maybe he really will wind up in pieces at the bottom of a river, a pile of gore and meat ripped apart and disorganized. Or he'll end up tied and spread, an object to be used for the rest of his no doubt short life. Or, distantly and without fondness he imagines, he'll escape, be one of those pitiful victims on the news under smooth lighting and pressed clothes, tears in his eyes, scars all over him. 

There is something to be said about living a long, quiet life with the memories of this carved into him. There’s something to be said about becoming a scrapbook of terrible secrets that only freaks and perverts want to see. He could become the highest priced collector’s item on the market.

There's some scuffling, some sound of plastic-on-plastic, some footsteps. And then there's hands on him again, undoing the knots. His arms come loose first, and his shoulder sign in relief. His legs shortly after. He resets himself on the bed, sitting up as the stranger takes the cover off his head. The first thing Zach sees are his eyes, those same, dark eyes are looking at him, studying him. 

The man pulls back and walks down the side of the bed, behind a camera he must've just set up. 

"Strip."

Zach flinches, but it never occurs to him to refuse. He takes the bottom of his shirt in his hands, pulls it over his head, throws it to the floor. He's shakier with his pajama bottoms, but gets the off the same. He's left in his briefs, camera pointing at him, man much bigger and definitely stronger than him staring back at him, no active threat in his body language, but a deadly clarity all the same. 

Zach hesitates and it feels like the ceiling is going to cave in on him. He peels away his underwear down his thighs, over his ankles. He pulls his knees up, covering himself.

"We're gonna be making an... audition tape. Lemme see your face,” He says, hunched down and looking through the viewfinder. His voice is light, as if he’s joking. Zach knows he’s not.

Zach picks his chin up a bit, torn between devotion and caution. This man doesn't know you, one part of him says, high and anxious. This man only wants to hurt you. This man only wants to hurt you, the other part replies. At least he's honest. At least he's wearing his danger on his sleeve, isn't hiding behind smiles full of teeth and old blood. 

Zach feels something wet run down his face, only from one eye. The man stands tall, seemingly satisfied with the camera position. He smiles then, but it looks more forced than anything, thin and wavering. Zach looks up at him, seeing some aspect of his mask slipping, or at least ill-fitting. 

He wanted to leave now. He wanted to go home. He thought about making a break for it. There was a door across the room, and it didn't seem to have a lock. If he didn't make it, there would've been no reason for this man not to kill him. If he didn't make it, he'd be good as dead anyway. 

And if he made it-- If he made it, he’d never know what this man wants to do to him.

The stranger runs his thumb across Zach's cheek. He asks his name, and Zach gives it. The man smiles. "You can call me Ricky."

He cups Zach's face, and Zach finds that underlying blanket of tenderness he's always felt for Ricky, even before he knew him, even before his hands had ever explored the shadows of him. Quickly, he pulls his hand up, into Zach's hair, and pulls his head back. It knocks Zach out of his protected position, his arms flailing on either side of him, his legs spreading, trying to balance. 

Ricky takes the moment, shifts his weight, and spins around behind Zach, hand still in his hair with his other hand wrapping around Zach's throat, holding him up, presenting him to the camera. Zach awkwardly settles on his knees as Ricky loosens the grip in his hair, runs his hand down his chest, his stomach, holds his hips for a few seconds. There's a buzzing anxiety in Zach's stomach, a vulnerability that sticks to his skin, seems to dig into his body. He twists and turns, but Ricky holds him tight, keeps him still. 

He leans down into Zach's ear, curling behind him, swallowing him whole while barely opening his mouth. "Stay still. Wouldn't want this to turn into a more _violent_ sort of movie, right?”

And Zach can see himself spilling out in the pixels of the viewfinder. Zach can see his blood steam off his tattered skin. Zach can see himself dead in a million ways, all of them captured and sold to the highest bidder. Zach can see himself sold to the highest bidder regardless.

Zach can catch the scent of him, sweat and adrenaline, a high-pitched, excitement sort of smell. It twisted Zach's stomach two ways. 

Ricky lays his chin on Zach’s shoulder, looking straight into the camera, turning Zach's head so he's looking the same direction. In that same moment, he wraps his hand around Zach's cock, all of it fitting in his palm. He runs his thumb over the head, back and forth, grinning the entire time while he whispers about how high Zach will sell for, what a beautiful piece he is. He just needs to see him come, just needs to see him flushed and ruined, embarrassed. People pay a lot of money to break a cute kid like him. Ricky needs to see him broken.

He shoves Zach's head down onto the mattress forcing his ass up, forcing him into the most shameful position Zach has ever found himself in. Ricky takes his hips, had enough to bruise, and Zach can feel the outline of his cock, half-hard though his jeans, and that unrelenting fear grips him all at once, worse than before. He doesn't want to go home, he wants to crawl away in one piece, he wants to survive, he wants to close his eyes and blink out of existence completely. 

Ricky presses Zach's face down, until he can't breathe, until he's reaching up and scratching at his wrist, his arm, anywhere he can reach, and then the pain in his lungs is overtaken by an awful, tearing pain somewhere else. There's something wet and watery, maybe spit, maybe blood, but it doesn't help much, and Ricky doesn't seem the type to try very hard to make it any easier. 

He shoves his way past all the natural obstacles of Zach's body, past all the whining and convulsing of Zach as his lungs cave in, as he's sure he's close to death. Right at the point his head is about to snap off his body, Ricky grabs a handful of his hair and pulls him up, and in the same motion, forces the last of himself inside Zach. 

It's because he's inexperienced, he thinks, a swaddled virgin. It's because of the combination of finally breathing and feeling _anything_ inside him. It's for a million reasons that he comes in that position, ruined for the camera, speared and bloodied. 

Ricky doesn't stop, keeps going until he's panting his Zach's ear, hand over his stomach, whispering vague degradation and promises. He'll be gentle with him next time. He'll keep him safe. He'll break him until there's nothing left but this feeling. He'll break him down and rebuild him completely. He'll never let him go. He doesn’t matter to anyone else anyway.

Then Zach's full of him, brimming with and soaked in the most disgusting thing he's ever felt. He feels like sweat and lust personified, he feels like the ghost-image of sin. If Ricky was trying to break him, he succeeded, and there will be nothing that can put him back in place.

Ricky drops him all at once. Leaves him in a pile of doll parts on the bed. He walks over to the camera and shuts it off. 


End file.
